The little man had moved at last. He was on his feet, staring about him, wild-eyed. “Where's yer dogs?” he almost screamed. “Here's ma--Nay, by thunder! but he's not!” was the astonished cry. In the interest of the story no man had noticed that his dog had risen from his side; no one had noticed a file of shaggy figures creeping out of the room. “I tell ye it's the tykes! I tell ye it's the tykes! They're on ma Wullie--fifty to one they're on him! My God! My God! And me not there! Wullie, Wullie! “--in a scream--“I'm wi' ye!” At the same moment Bessie Boistock rushed in, white-faced. “Hi! Feyther! Mr. Saunderson! all o' you! T'tykes fightin' mad! Hark!” There was no time for that. Each man seized his stick and rushed for the door; and M'Adam led them all. A rare thing it was for M'Adam and Red Wull to be apart. So rare, that others besides the men in that little tap-room noticed it. Saunderson's old Shep walked quietly to the back door of the house and looked out. There on the slope below him he saw what he sought, stalking up and down, gaunt and grim, like a lion at feeding-time. And as the old dog watched, his tail was gently swaying as though he were well pleased. He walked back into the tap-room just as Teddy began his tale. Twice he made the round of the room, silent-footed. From dog to dog he went, stopping at each as though urging him on to some great enterprise. Then he made for the door again, looking back to see if any followed. One by one the others rose and trailed out after him: big blue Rasper, Londesley's Lassie, Ned Hoppin's young dog; Grip and Grapple, the publican's bull-terriers; Jim Mason's Gyp, foolish and flirting even now; others there were; and last of all, waddling heavily in the rear, that scarred Amazon, the Venus. Out of the house they pattered, silent and unseen, with murder in their hearts. At last they had found their enemy alone. And slowly, in a black cloud, like the shadow of death, they dropped down the slope upon him. And he saw them coming, knew their errand--as who should better than the Terror of the Border?--and was glad. Death it might be, and such an one as he would wish to die--at least distraction from that long-drawn, haunting pain. And he smiled grimly as he looked at the approaching crowd, and saw there was not one there but he had humbled in his time. He ceased his restless pacing, and awaited them. His great head was high as he scanned them contemptuously, daring them to come on. And on they came, marching slow and silent like soldiers at a funeral: young and old; bob-tailed and bull; terrier and collie; flocking like vultures to the dead. And the Venus, heavy with years, rolled after them on her bandy legs panting in her hurry lest she should be late. For had she not the blood of her blood to avenge?